Baby Boomer Humor by
Frank Mullen III
I saw color television for the first time one evening in the early 1960s, after Sunday dinner at the Young's house. Mr. Young ushered my family into the den for a demonstration, and turned on the imposing RCA console. A harp glissando swept from the speaker, and Tinkerbell swished across the screen, spritzing pixie dust here and there. At the age of eleven, I was finally welcomed to "Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color."
The predominant color in this wonderful world was green. This worked well for Peter Pan's suit, but made his face look like he'd been slurping snot from a dog bowl. Mr. Young adjusted some dials, and red became the hue du jour. Every time Captain Hook moved across the screen, his waistcoat left an effervescent trail of shimmering red pixels behind him, an effect with which I would become extensively familiar in college, while minoring in recreational hallucinogens. The imperfections of the new technology did not bother me, but I knew this innovation would not reside in our house any time soon; my father was determined to wait "until they get the bugs out." Shortly before he died in 1986, he threw caution to the wind, and color television entered the Mullen home.
In December of that year, I was in the ballroom of a Tokyo hotel, waiting to perform at a holiday show. I was backstage when the warmup act arrived, a troupe of performers from Japan's Disneyland. They took their costumes out of a large trunk and began dressing for the show. Lederhosen and a plastic proboscis turned a slight Japanese man into Pinocchio, and a blond American woman was transformed into Cinderella's fairy godmother, with the help of a few yards of blue chiffon and a generous application of foam padding. Soon, I found myself rubbing elbows with Dumbo, Prince Charming and the Queen of Hearts.
When the opening notes to "It's A Small World" filled the ballroom, the lights came up, and the denizens of Disneyland swept on stage, filling the world with enchantment. Even before they were halfway through the opening number, I'd forgotten that they were actors lip-synching to a pre-recorded tape.
Entranced, I watched from the wings as the medley of Disney melodies unfolded. Jiminy Cricket wished upon a star, and Snow White wished that her prince would come. He did, of course, followed by Grumpy, Sneezy and Dopey, who whistled while they worked, to the delight of oversized mice and chipmunks. Even the White Rabbit showed up; late, of course.
The act ended with a reprise of "It's A Small World." After a moment of thunderous applause, the exit music came up, and the cast waved goodbye as they marched offstage.
In my reverie, I neglected to move out of the way of the approaching parade. Cinderella's fairy godmother ran into me, shoving and screaming, "Move, goddam it." She ripped off her costume and began hurling garments into the wardrobe trunk, then turned to Pinocchio and said, "Listen, dirtwad, the next time you step on my foot during "Someday My Prince Will Come," I'm gonna take this magic wand and shove it."
"Suck on this, American whore," Pinocchio said, waving his detached nose in her face. "Besides," he said as he pulled down his lederhosen, "is Goofy fault; he always bumping me in ass when we doing the crossover."
My mother ran a nursery school in the 1950s, and our house overflowed with Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and picture books. I recently came across one of my old favorites, "Mickey Mouse's Birthday Party," at a garage sale. I looked fondly at the cover, but didn't dare open it; I've seen the coarse, naked reality that lurks behind the Disney facade, and it's not pretty.
Minnie Mouse called out from the kitchen, "It's so damn hot in here, I've got a heat rash that feels like a forest fire in my butt-cheeks."
Mickey looked up from his copy of "Hustler" and yelled, "Shut up and bake the frigging cake."
"Bite me," Minnie answered. "And tell your idiot pal, the duck, to get his feet off the table."
Mickey took a swig of Schlitz and belched. "Chill. He's rolling joints for the dwarves."
"Did you invite those perverts?" Minnie asked.
"You got a problem with my buddies?" Mickey replied.
"A problem?" Minnie said. "Seven stoned midgets barfing in the sink, clogging the toilet and making eyes at Pluto isn't a problem?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2004, Frank Mullen IIII.
Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.
Print
